


The Bargain

by baixue88



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Hate Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3466607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baixue88/pseuds/baixue88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esmeralda accepts Claude's offer in the dungeon, and he takes her to his cell in the Cathedral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bargain

She had taken the bargain. For better or worse, when the priest offered her a way out of the horrible little cell far beneath the roads of Paris, Esmeralda had taken it. She couldn’t breathe down there. She couldn’t tell night from day, only the changing of the guard. She’d felt entombed, dying, wilting, and the moment she’d emerged into the open air she’d gasped like she was half-drowned.

The priest led her down twisting alleyways that, in her state of mind, were so alien to her that they might as well have been a new city altogether. His hand was in a vice-grip on her wrist, but it needn’t have been: she’d have followed him anyway. Where else was she to go?

At last, she found herself in a new cell, but it was warm here, and lived-in, full of clutter and the smell of food. Her stomach gurgled, and he fed her some fresh bread and gave her a little wine.

As afraid as she was of him, her every muscle ached, and her mind was overwhelmed. She dozed a little. When she awoke, his lips were pressed to her bare shoulder.

“Oh!” She said, and at the sound of her voice he jumped away like a man burned.

“You made a bargain,” he said coldly, recovering himself.

 _Yes, that’s right._ Esmeralda put a hand to her forehead and sat up, finding herself on a little couch surrounded by books and parchment. The priest was seated beside her, every limb quivering. She couldn’t meet his gaze; he had the stare of a hungry wolf. Was it only a few days ago that she had agreed to give herself up to her Phoebus?

The pouch, her little charm, still hung at her neck. They had left her that much. But what good was it if she was going to be locked up in a dungeon and then executed? She’d already renounced the idea of ever finding her mother. It had done her no good in her first fifteen years, and the task was impossible anyway, even for gypsy magic. It would certainly not do her any good now. If she refused now, she’d be sent back _there_ (the thought made her shudder), and from there, to the gallows.

Esmeralda pulled the charm from her neck and handed it to the priest, who glanced at it in confusion.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Useless,” she replied, her voice soft and sad. She would have given up hope for Phoebus’ love. Now she had no hope no matter what, and nothing left worth preserving.

The priest looked at the pouch curiously, but didn’t open it, and set it beside him on a little table, not taking his eyes from her. His hunger still burned.

She was no stranger to how things went between men and women. She’d seen her fair share of sexual dalliances living in the Court of Miracles. People there were not shy about things. Still, it did not help her nervousness. She wondered whether or not she ought to tell him of her inexperience. Would it make him gentler or more brutal? She’d heard stories of men that brutalized virginal women for fun, making their deflowering into a nightmare. This was already a nightmare; she wasn’t sure if she could afford for things to be any worse. Was the priest one of those brutes? He was cruel enough, that was certain.

Her ponderings were cut short by his touch. He turned her to face him and pressed his lips to hers, and she shivered at the searing pressure of it, all roughness and teeth, before he began to trail his mouth down her neck and to her shoulder. The cold air of the tower cell hit her skin as he pulled down her shift around her waist with unforgiving fingers, and with a moan he looked at her bronze breasts, her dark nipples. Trembling, he raised his hands, brushing them over her chest, and this nearly made her cry out and jump back at the unfamiliarity of it, but she stayed perfectly still. It was only when he bent his head, reverent, to press kisses to her chest, that she could no longer stand it.

“Please, father!” She cried, unable to keep her stoic silence any longer. The truth came spilling from her lips. “Please, I’m a maiden!”

He jerked back at this, staring at her like a fool.

“You…what?” He stammered, half-incoherent.

“Phoebus was going to be my first,” she said, and a small part of her enjoyed the way he jerked at that name, as if in pain. Even so, he dropped his hands from her breasts and sat, a wry, unhappy smile twisting his mouth.

“I’ve never been with a woman, either,” he muttered, and there was so much genuine bitterness in his voice that she couldn’t help it, and a mean little laugh bubbled up over her lips.

“What a start!” She said when he turned to glare fury at her. “And I am the first?”

“I told you I love you,” he said fiercely. “I told you none ever truly tempted me before. Did you not hear me?”

“No,” she said. “I was afraid and hungry and cold. How could I listen to your every word, when you go on and on like a madman?” She shivered, and wrapped her arms about herself, still a bit chilly.

“You are really a virgin?” He asked insistently.

“Yes, do you not believe me? I would have given my first time to Phoebus, but then you – oh Phoebus!”

“Shut up!” He grabbed her arm. “Don’t say his name! Not here. Not now. Please!”

“He kissed me gently. He would have been a gentleman.”

His eyes were burning at this, rage and desire building together. “Be quiet.”

There was power here, she realized suddenly. Power to make him hurt. Power to make him feel every wound he inflicted upon her.

“Phoebus would have given me pleasure, instead of disgusting me,” she spit out, and the words hit him like a smack in the face, his eyes filling with pain and fury.

“We shall see,” he snarled, “what _disgust_ I can make you feel.”

With that, he pressed her down onto the couch, shoving up the skirt of her shift so that the whole mess of white fabric did nothing more than cover her waist. She didn’t blush at him staring at her black curls and the folds of her sex. She had no shame left in her veins, only a hot, boiling hatred, and a desire to make him suffer. She lay there, her face cold, and when he ripped off his cassock and pulled out his cock, she laughed at him cruelly and mocked his size. When he thrust inside of her, she swore to him that she felt nothing despite the pain of it. All the while, she mocked him with the name he hated, tormenting him until he was red-faced and wild-eyed, thrusting into her like a mad dog and unable to enjoy a minute of it.

So enjoyable was his rage that the pain in her sex eventually began to be accompanied by something distinctly pleasurable, the same sensation she’d felt when Phoebus first kissed her, and she told the priest as much. This new information caused him to howl with rage, and he thrust ever harder into her.

She closed her eyes and thought of her sun god and the impotent rage of the man above her, and her body rippled in a sudden wave of pleasure that made her howl the captain’s name.

Her captor jerked a few times more against her and then pulled out, his cock going limp, his pleasure ruined. He glared searing hatred and lust at her, and she laughed at him and kicked him like a fitful child.

“His memory has brought me joy tonight, father!” she taunted. “And we thank you for your generous alms-giving.”

He threw his robes on and fled the room. 


End file.
